


Overreaction

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Allergies, Fluff, Gen, Sherlock is an overprotective hen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:18:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for this prompt at the kinkmeme: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19351.html?thread=114424471#t114424471.</p><p>"John has a severe allergic reaction to something he's never eaten before, and nearly dies. </p><p>Cue paranoid!Sherlock snapping into mother-hen mode: buying EpiPens in bulk and keeping them ever-ready, publicly making a Big Deal out of keeping Whatever John's Allergic To far away from their vicinity, interrogating John on whether or not he has any other allergies, etc.</p><p>Exasperated John is exasperated, mortified, and of course tremendously touched. Fluffy, h/c-filled gen."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overreaction

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly edited since its original posting.

*****

_“Allergies.”_

_“Allergies.”_

_“Allergies, John.”_

Sherlock’s voice rings out through the house once, twice, three times. John sighs – again, louder this time, in the vain hope that Sherlock might notice…or care – and turns his paper to the next page. 

“John, you know I cannot complete my analyses without further data. I _need _to know!” Sherlock’s voice is growing more frustrated now, and the relentless tapping of his feet on the ground is giving John a headache.__

Finally, John puts his paper down and turns exasperatedly. “I’ve _given_ you data, Sherlock. Remember when we spent that one time talking through every single thing I’ve ever had a reaction to – ever – in my life? Oh, right, that was EVERY DAY THIS WEEK. What more could you possibly need?”

Sherlock gives him a look that conveys a mixture of _Butbutbut!_ and _You cannot possibly understand the inner workings of my mind, John, and yet you keep trying, like a turtle trying to scale the Eiffel Tower. Why?_

“Let me review for you why I might _possibly_ need more data, John. You had an episode two weeks ago because you never stopped to consider that you might be allergic to the lemongrass our new Thai place uses, and I was unable to deduce your allergy because of _a lack of data._ I can try to help you and prevent another episode in the future, but I cannot make bricks without clay!” If Sherlock had been the type of person who said, “ _Come on,_ ” he would’ve ended his speech that way.

John sighs for the fifty-second – sixty-third? He’s lost count – time that day, and begins again. 

“The first time I ever had an allergy to something was when I was at university…”

***

The next day, John walks up the stairs slowly, carrying 4 bags of groceries (“ _Someone_ has to get him to eat,” he’d muttered to himself, then dumped every nutritious thing he could find at Tesco into his cart), stopping short when he sees Sherlock engrossed in reading what appears to be a medical manual.

“Did you know that there are over 18 symptoms of a lemongrass allergy?” Sherlock asks absently, ignoring John’s struggles with the groceries. “One of them is an inability to breathe, which you of course have experience with—“

“I know this, Sherlock,” says John, interrupting gently. “I’m a doctor, remember? In fact, that’s where I go off to every day when you’re lazing about on the sofa _not_ eating—“

“Yes, well, transport, John,” says Sherlock. “In any case, I took the liberty of getting some supplies today. You should find them useful in the future, should anything…untoward happen again.”

“You. Took the liberty. Of getting supplies,” says John. “ _You_ did.”

“You know how I hate to repeat myself,” says Sherlock, and closes his eyes, putting the manual down on his chest as he leans back onto the sofa. 

John shakes his head and walks into the kitchen to put away the groceries.

Fifteen minutes later, John begins to wash the dishes.

Thirty minutes later, he discovers he has nowhere to put them, due to a mild obstacle – every cabinet in the kitchen is stuffed to the brim with EpiPens. 

“What is going on here, Sherlock?” John asks, storming into the living room with an EpiPen in his hand, ready to _get some answers today, god damn it._

His anger goes to waste, however, for Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

***

“Worried about you, is he?” Lestrade asks, sipping at his tea the next day.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” replies John. “I mean, Sherlock can be strange—“

“Yes,” says Lestrade quickly. “Yes.”

“—but this seems really strange even by his standards. My reaction two weeks ago wasn’t even that severe – I was in and out of the hospital in two hours at the most.”

“You didn’t see Sherlock when you were in the ambulance, though,” said Lestrade. “It was the first time I’ve ever thought, _Wow, Sherlock actually has nothing to say._ He was quite shaken, you know. He called me, insisting that I immediately bring him a police car as an escort to the hospital so he could skip all the lights, too.”

“That’s nice, I suppose,” said John. “But you know I came home yesterday to find out Sherlock bought two hundred EpiPens with Mycroft’s credit card? They were in every single kitchen cabinet. Who needs _two hundred EpiPens_?”

“Maybe you should just be happy we’ve all finally got evidence Sherlock cares about someone,” Lestrade says, smiling. “We had an office pool going, you know. Anderson will be put out to find out he has to pay up.”

“Well,” says John, “you’re right. I suppose this is Sherlock’s version of caring.”

He leaves with what an observer might have called a spring in his step.

***

He makes ravioli for dinner, putting special thought into the dish. He puts some in a bowl and places it on the coffee table next to Sherlock, who seems to have finished the medical manual and is now engrossed in what John can see is a book called “Allergic Reactions, Volume Two.”

“Sherlock,” says John.

No response.

“Sherlock.”

“Hm.”

“ _Sherlock._ ”

“Hm?,” this time with a questioning intonation.

“Food.”

“Not hungry.”

“Well, that’s just too bad,” says John. “Eat.”

Sherlock finally breaks eye contact with the book and looks over sullenly. “What I’m reading could save your life someday, John.”

John doesn’t quite know what to say for a second. He settles on: “That’s excellent, Sherlock. Now eat. This can wait.”

“No, it can’t, John. This is _important!_ This is about _you!_ ” says Sherlock, looking determinedly back at the book.

John is oddly touched by Sherlock’s comment. “Is this why you bought two hundred EpiPens, then, Sherlock?” he asks. “Because you were so shaken by my episode? Is that why you’ve been reading about allergic reactions for a week now? Let me assure you I won’t have an allergic reaction again – we can just avoid that Thai place from now on--”

“I was not _shaken_ by your episode,” Sherlock responds snappily. “I just wanted to make sure such an occurrence would never happen again. Ever. After all, if you kept dropping like a fly every time you ate something it would interfere with my work.”

John smiles despite himself. He can read between the lines as well as anyone. “With your work.”

“Yes, John, did you not hear me the first time? It would be inconvenient to my work.”

“And why exactly would that be?”

“Because I would have to take you to the hospital all the time,” says Sherlock, in the tone of someone saying, “The obviousness of this statement is making me cry inside and you are a stupid person.”

“Right, well, you don’t _have_ to come with me to the hospital, you know,” says John. He can’t help it; he knows he’s only continuing this line of conversation with a very specific hope, but he can’t stop himself from prompting Sherlock anyway. He has to know. “I’m a big boy now, I can fend for—“

“No,” says Sherlock. “If anything – _anything_ – like what happened two weeks ago happens again, we are going to the hospital _immediately._ And I am accompanying you.” He looks up at John now, and clears his throat slightly. “You are…important to my work, John. More than my work. You are…important.” He looks back down quickly. “So I hope that’s settled, then, and that you can find it within your heart to stop interrupting my reading with obvious questions for at least the next hour or so.”

Something flutters in John’s heart, and he looks down at the curly-haired figure in front of him with something like affection. “For what it’s worth,” says John, reaching over to pull the book away from Sherlock so he can make eye contact, “I would do the same for you. I would do _exactly_ the same for you.”

“Good,” says Sherlock. “That’s…good.” He gives John a quick look and nods slightly. 

“Now eat your ravioli, Sherlock, it’s going cold,” says John gently, turning away and smiling at no one in particular.

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into the Sherlock fandom, so any feedback is much appreciated! Thanks for reading.


End file.
